Montana

The mountains remember to watch over this hill
where my parents lie. Over the years,  
three sisters, one brother, and my husband have joined their rest.

Blue-shouldered and white-peaked, the giants look down,
faithful to their task, uncaring in their majesty,
while an eagle screams, then dives to snatch a gopher. 

The wind whispers each inhale, sighs each exhale through the lodgepole pines.
In the meadow below, the creek winds around the hill's base,
so clear you can see trout dart through the water like errant thoughts.

In the shade of its elderly ancestor, baby sagebrush dares to grow; 
from the branches of the dying white pine, cones drop like a waterfall.
Carried by snowmelt and May rain, 

deer droppings, bear scat, and cow manure feed 
wildflowers' young roots. Elephant's head, buttercups, 
shooting stars paint the moist earth purple and yellow.

In late June when spring's melt gives way to stone-hard earth,
wildflowers wither, parched by the sun. On chiseled granite, 
lichens spread  to cover my mother's name.

I pick up rocks, gritty with warm dust, to fill the badger's hole 
near my husband's grave. A breeze bites my cheek with the prickle 
of snow from mountains that never sleep.

Muddy River Poetry Review, May 2020
No Batteries Required, Yellow Arrow Publishing 2021